That Part Was True (14 page)

Dear Jack,

I have been struck lately by how exhausting mental work is. Physically exhausting, I mean. It's strange that the body can become so overwhelmed by the activity of the brain. I dare say there is a scientific explanation involving adrenalin or something, but in any case I think you should be aware of it. Because, if you're going to tackle this great book-writing feat, you'll need strengthening sustenance.

I'm sending you a recipe for Scotch broth, it's warming, nourishing and benefits from re-heating. The preparation takes time, but after that it makes itself. Perhaps that's how it will be with your book.

Good luck,

Eve

I am going to make this broth, and if the aroma of it is so powerful, pungent, and flavorful that an assortment of bears comes forging out of the woods and makes supper of me—on your conscience be it.

J

P.S.
If they leave a thigh bone, not too gnawed, use it for stock.

Are there really bears?

Yes.

Chapter Twelve

Eve,

When I was a kid, I was afraid of snakes. I don't mean nervous of them. I mean afraid, deeply, gut-wrenchingly afraid. I refused to go camping with my father because of it. I loved camping.

And so, one night, he took me aside and got it out of me. And after I'd told him, he explained that plenty of people are afraid of things that there is no rational reason to fear. He said that it was on account of some ancient part of the brain that makes even city dwellers start at the sound of a twig snapping. And that's why, he said, sometimes you just gotta make friends with the fear. Because you may have to live with it for a while.

Jack

No bears yet.

Dear Jack,

I knew that if I told you, you'd understand. How did I know that?

Eve

Are you still afraid of snakes?

From time to time, and plenty else besides. But I go camping every chance* I get.

*It is fair to say that these chances have been sporadic to the point of nonexistence since about 1987.

I have begun to understand that I am not afraid of people, or of Life. What I'm afraid of is my reaction to them. What I am afraid of is myself.

Eve

That's why it's so important to do the making-friends part. By the way, I've baked a ham. It does the same thing as the broth, beckons to me when my hands leave the keyboard. But I think it is better to eat than to overedit at this point, so I answer her calls. (Definitely a she—sweet and fatty.)

J

Look up 2 4 6 8 cake. When my brain won't leave me alone, I am sometimes able to divert it from a full-on attack by reciting the recipe. You could try it when your hands leave the keyboard.

Eve

It works. The demon was on me at 11 a.m.: “You will never finish this book. You will never finish this book.” But I fought back. 2 eggs, I said, and take 4 ounces of butter and 8 ounces of flour, too, you fucker. (You will excuse the vernacular, I am being faithful to the tenor of the scene.) Then I put my hands back on the keyboard and stuck at it for another hour.

You are a marvel, Eve. Your letters, which I have to walk half a mile to collect, are even more of a highlight out here. And you seem happy. Celebrate. Make a batch of these Parmesan Biscuits and knock a few back with your sherry. Because if you don't recognize the good times, friend, they pass you at a dead run.

You are right about celebrating happiness. I have never thought of it that way before. I wonder why the negative patterns have been so much more accessible to me. Self-pity, for instance, has always come easier than elation. Easier, but more expensive.

Eve

I made the parmesan biscuits. They were divine.

There's sadness and there's misery, Eve. Misery's that bitter stuff you cook up yourself. Your burden is sadness, an oppressive sadness that I'm glad to hear you chipping away at, but misery is not your style. You've reminded me not to make it mine. Thanks.

Jack

 

What did you eat on the wedding day? I hope it was lush, and that you will describe it lavishly. I have been snowed in and surviving on beans and bacon.

J

Your honeyed nuts (very popular), cheddar crisps (ditto), onion dip, mushrooms with goat cheese. Potted mackerel. Goose, onion and celery stuffing, roasted potatoes and parsnips, boiled turnips and carrots, spiced red cabbage, sprouts, preserved apricots, whipped cream, brandy butter and Christmas pudding. Chocolates and coconut ice. Menu mostly chosen by popular vote, since we won't all be together at Christmas. I put coins in the pudding, for the children. We toasted Ollie and Izzy with a fabulous Sauterne that Simon brought.

It was wonderful, Jack.

Izzy looked so beautiful, I can't describe it. And Ollie's mother showed up after all and was not nearly so daunting as I'd feared. Apart from her and Ollie's sister and our muddled little crowd—Simon and Laura and the boys—there were only Ollie's and Izzy's best friends. They all stopped at the pub on the way back, to give me time to prepare. Gwen helped, of course, and one of her daughters came with her. Gwen's husband, George, was in the pub when Izzy walked in, in her long velvet dress with her bouquet. He said everyone stood up and cheered. So they should have.

It was the happiest day of my life. It shouldn't have been. Her birth should have been, but perhaps late pleasures are all the sweeter for the waiting.

I hope things are as happy on your end.

Eve

Mummy,

Thank you for everything. We'll write every day.

Izzy X (and Ollie X)

My Dear Eve,

It was a perfect wedding. We enjoyed it so much. The boys were particularly delighted with their sweets. How do you make the fudge? It is delicious. Thank you for everything.

With love,

Laura

Eve,

I know that Laura has written to thank you, but this is a thank you from me. Not for the food and hospitality, all of which was perfect, but for your openness to me and to my family for the sake of
our
family. You are an example to us all.

Simon

  

Dearest Eve,

It's really finished. And guess what? Harry Gordon isn't. I've saved him for another year. He owes his life to you.

I had begun to get cynical about my work, and worse, my readers. It was a mistake and reflective of me, not them. You have brought me back in touch with so many things.

Jack

Although I'm not sure if that's what I'm meant to say. The thing is that, unmarried, he can focus on his work. I know that's an unpopular idea, but I do think there's something to it. It's not the love that distracts people. Love, I think, can be a great energizer, but the slow draining away of love, or worse, false love, is exhausting. And I don't think Harry's the marrying kind anyway, but the redhead certainly was, so it would have been a false love soon enough. Why am I telling you this? You wrote it. I get caught up in the story and forget that. Sorry.

Thank you so much, Jack, for letting me see it. It's not just that I loved the book (I did), but knowing that no one else had read it made the experience all the more precious.

Eve

I cooked leeks, this week, in red wine and beef stock, and ate them cold. As good as your novel.

I am not mentioning Paris just yet. You know why.

I have read your letter and understand your concerns. After that episode on the train you are bound to feel that an airport would tax you. There is no point in my reminding you that I could meet you or that you could wait till Izzy has come back from her honeymoon and bring her with you, because I know you have thought of that.

I also know that you have a script in your head of how it oughtta be, this rendezvous of ours. I know because I have one, too, have had for a while. So, this is what I'm going to do: On the 28th I'm going to get on a plane. And on the 29th I'm going to go to Le Pont du Sud at 6:00 p.m. and order two kirs. If you don't come, I'll drink yours, and toast you with it, dear friend.

  

  

Chapter Thirteen

Dear Eve,

I am writing to send you my new address.

No I'm not, I'm writing because it feels right. You could have found me easily enough and, in any case, I moved six months ago. But I have wanted to tell you, for all that time and all the months before, about Paris, and to thank you for not coming. That may seem odd to you but I don't think it will because you remain, in my head at least, The Great Understander.

You did right. I was still, at that point, hunting around for something. I didn't see it then, and would have fought the notion hugely if it had been put to me, but I was still looking for something physical to hitch my life to. I used to do that with women and I wasn't yet quite cured of the habit and, lord knows, I might have tried some of the old stuff with you. If I had, I would not be writing this letter now. Certainly you would not be reading it.

That night, when I knew you would not come as soon as the concierge handed me the message, I went to our meeting spot and drank your kir, as I said I would. And then I ate. I asked to keep a menu, like a tourist, so that I could send it to you, and now finally I am doing so, but you might like to know what I ordered; I was eating for the both of us after all.

I started with the artichokes, and then eschewed the tuna tartare, although I was tempted, in favor of the lobster. It was the tarragon that won me over. I am a sucker for it and have, lately, been making a version of mustard and tarragon sauce that I will send you if you're interested. But back to our dinner: After the lobster I was served a perfect morsel of green apple sorbet and I thought of you. Such a tiny thing, but it looked exquisite, and I thought, Eve would approve. It reminded me of your comment about party food and hummingbirds. Also, the apple was Granny Smith and I remembered you specified those for your spiced red cabbage. “They don't mush,” you said. You were right. After that I ate the côte de veau and a side of spinach. If you'd been there, I'd have bullied you into the rabbit so that I could taste the sauce, but you weren't. You weren't. After that I rested up kinda morosely before meeting the cheeses. I couldn't stay morose for long because the waiter introduced them with such infectious enthusiasm. I won't bore you with the details, they were all French, all fully matured, all delicious. The wines, too, naturally. I finished with some fried plums—for you, of course. And an eaux de vie—poire. I hope you approve.

I'd like to say that I walked back to the hotel afterward, with my collar up, and that I stood and looked out at the Seine in the bituminous night, and was subject to some sort of epiphany about my future (which is how I would write it, of course, for a hero rather than me), but it wasn't that way. I walked back and I thought a little more of you and a lot more of myself, as has been my long habit, but mostly I just felt that I had begun something. And I had.

When I got home, after another six days of very fine eating and pretty good walking, I saw that Grove Shore belonged to the old me. I couldn't catch my reflection in a storefront without facing my failures. I am using that word rather melodramatically, it's true, but I mean that I had slipped into a kind of dilatory life there and I think, when you're getting to your middle years, you've either gotta haul yourself up, or surrender to some pretty fast sliding. So I put my shoulder muscles to use and headed north. It took six months to move properly and I said some sad good-byes, but once the worst was done, the relocation was smooth. I bought a good-sized, shingle house on two acres up here. I still look at the sea, but it looks back with more attitude. The walks are better but the winters are harsher.

You might be surprised (no you won't) to hear that I have also become interested in gardening. I remember you mentioned your own garden once or twice, but I never picked up on it so you let the matter drop—such a selfless correspondent. Well, anyhow, if you write about it now, I'll happily bore you with my new interest. I think growing vegetables may become one of my great loves, although I have inherited a cat from the previous owners of this house (who have gone to live in Italy—so you can tell that this is the right sort of house) and he has claimed a great chunk of my affections.

When I'm not tinkering with tomatoes, or arrested by the rarely bestowed, but almighty lap weight of Major Tom, I'm writing or walking, and, here's the kicker, twice a week I help out at a local high school. Not too many kids hereabouts know anything of hunger or disease, but there's a few of 'em who struggle with reading, which I think comes a close second. The school needed volunteers to come in and read with them. I'm one. (Mrs. John Elliot-Carson is one, too. But she's a whole other story that I'll tell you sometime if you want to hear it.) Mostly, I read with a boy called Ethan, who's fifteen and jumpy. We hit it off right away, and I'm glad to say that the jumps settle a bit when we're together.

So, now you can see what an upright fella I've become in your absence.

Anyway, we are extraordinarily happy here, Major Tom and I, and I even have my hopes for Ethan. I say “extraordinarily” because I wonder constantly that I had not realized before I turned fifty-one what the ingredients for happiness really were. I think we each find our own recipe and I have found mine. I hope that you have, too.

Jack

• ½ pound sultanas
  
• 1 pound currants
  
• ½ pound raisins
  
• 4 ounces candied cherries
  
• 4 ounces candied peel
  
• 4 ounces blanched almonds
  
• 12 ounces flour
  
• grated rind of 1 lemon
  
• 4 eggs
  
• 4 tablespoons milk
  
• 8 ounces butter
  
• 8 ounces brown sugar
  
• 1 tablespoon Golden Syrup
  
• 2–4 tablespoons sherry or brandy
  
• 1 teaspoon cinnamon
  
• 1 teaspoon mixed spice *
  
• ½ teaspoon salt
  

Mix together the dried fruits, cherries, peel, and almonds. Dust with a little flour, and add the lemon rind. Whisk the eggs and milk together. Cream the butter and sugar, then add the syrup. Alternately mix in the flour (mixed with the salt and spices) and egg mixture. Fold in the fruit. Add the sherry or brandy.

Line a 9-inch round or 8-inch square tin with a double layer of baking paper (to 3 inches deep up the sides of the tin).**

Bake at 300° for 1½ hours. Then at 250° for 1½ hours.

Store at least 3 weeks.

* Mixed spice mainly consists of cinnamon, nutmeg and allspice. Just use the sorts of spices you like in your pumpkin pie.

** I always do this, out of superstition mostly, but you might not need to.